
Class 

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CopiglTt}J°--7 9/4 



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^ 



"TID'APA" 



(What Does It Matter?) 



BY 

GILBERT FRANKAU 




NEW YORK 

B. W. HUEBSCH 
MCMXIV 






Copyright, 1914. by B. W. HUEBSCH 



MAY -4 1914 



Printed in U. S. A. 



)Ci.A871«8J 



To One Who Cried 



46 



Tid'apa" 



Do you know our churchyard at Aden; lone tombs 

on a sun-parched plain — 
Treeless and flowerless, untended, unkissed of 

God's kindly rain — 
Fenced square with a low, green railing, lest the 

jackal filch from the priest? 
As you drive through Cantonment gateway, look 

well! It is all the East! 
There's one tombstone in Aden churchyard, more 

lone than its lonely mates, 
Whereunder — brown paper only between him and 

Hell's blazing gates — 
Lies the body of 'John James Sanders. Commer- 
cial. Who died at sea.' 
From the 'Corner House' to Malay Street, runs the 

trail of his memory; 
From the 'Spotted Dog,' to the Yacht Club, there 

are stories of 'Whisky Jim' — 
Men's tales of fierce sprees and deep drinking. 

And yet, if they mention him, 

7 



(( 



Tid'apa" 



The women, the loose-gowned women, foregath- 
ered at tiffin-time, 

When 'The Street' shews stripped of its tinsel, 
like an over-painted mime 

In the sickly glare of the noonday — when the beer 
gleams amber-gold, 

And the charred butts hiss in the saucers where 
the coffee-dregs grow cold — 

There will always be one who voices the verdict 
(they see so clear. 

Our outcasts) ''Ach, Whisky Jimmy, he was gentle- 
man-born, my dear." 



§ II 

Like ramparts of jade, in a garden sea-circled of 

blues and of greens — 
A garden all frangipanni, and moonflowers, and 

mangosteens 
Wine-red under lustrous foliage where the mating 

parrots scream — 
Due South from the Great Pagoda, four days of a 

favouring steam, 
Rise the Ridges of Lallong Island; — jade ram- 
parts, that beetle down 
To the straight white roads, and the palm-trees, 

and the beaches of Lallong Town. 
Life's lazy for us in Lallong: we are few, far ofif, 

on the fringe 
Of the teeming Eastern markets; but ever their 

trades impinge 
On the sunbright, seasonless sequence of our 

ordered, tropic days: 
For, westward plying or eastward, black-funnelled, 

the liner stays 
Her course in our red-buoyed harbour; and ever 

the mad-keen men, 

9 



(( 



Tid^apa'' 



Released from the blackened hillsides, from the 

half-cleared rubber-fen, 
From the red alluvial tin-bank and the tali-aye/s 

flow, 
Drift in by the 'kreta sombong' to drink at the 

'M. & O.' 
Where the white man drinks, there are women. 

Desire's paid captives, they come 
From the dreary Polish farm-land or the packed 

Italian slum, 
Weighed, chosen, and shipped like cattle, for a fate 

that is no less sure, 
In the lamplit passion-shambles where the white 

bawd flaunts her lure. 
But our prices are low in Lallong, low even for 

kine as these; 
Cathayan and brown Malayan and the flower- 
decked Japanese 
Join issue with meat-fed Europe: "Come here. 

Come up here, dear," they cry 
To the drunkly-waving seaman as his rickshaw- 
wheels roll by. 
So you'll find but love's refuse and sweepings; — 

rouged cheek sliced deep where the blade 
Of the husband, betrayed too often, wiped out the 

charms that betrayed; 

lO 



(( 



Tid'apa" 



Dull eye, red-rimmed as a vulture's with the wake- 
ful nights and the wine; 

Shrunk arm, pocked, pallid, and pitted by the 
needle's anodyne; — 

Drink-sodden or drug-sodden, outraged, or cank- 
ered with fouller scourge. 

In the white man's own Vhite' houses which the 
white man dares not purge. 

Yet when Jimmy was liquor-crazy, nor the proven 

risk nor the dread 
Of the ten-fold deadlier peril — fears known, 

friends ruined, or dead — 
Could hold him back from the women. And that 

night, ere the bar-boys slept, 
He had shouted for pahit and for stinger till the 

hot, strong bane of them swept 
In flame to each brain-cell's tinder. Flesh called, 

and all flesh was sweet. 
As he kicked up his rickshaw-coolie, and steered 

him, blind, for 'The Street.' 
Past the sounds, and the signs, and the singing, and 

the high verandah-glows. 
Was it Luck, or The Larger Purpose which led 

him to Madame Rose? 



II 



(C 



Tid'apa'' 



As the kites watch, waited die Alte. Thick- 
lidded, her filmed eyes blinked; 

She stiffened, her plumage ruffled; she was up ere 
the stair-bell clinked, 

*'Z)m Cldrchenl" she summoned. Languid, indif- 
ferent, old to the game. 

Raised hands smoothing tresses disordered, the 
sloven Austrian came. 

^'Beer: lashings of beer." How it bubbled; how 
the client rocked as he quafifed. 

"Here's cheero, old thing," he hiccoughed; "here's 
cheero." Die Alte laughed. 

"Drunk — thirty dollars — you get it!" she whis- 
pered. They were alone. 

"Come 'n along," his thick voice slobbered to the 
wheeze of the gramophone 

"You vill stay mit me, von't you, liebchen?''^ (Lust 
jettisons love-finesse, 

While the wine yet works in the wooed one.) But 
ere he might answer 'Yes,' 

To a patter of mounting footsteps and a mutter of 
oath from Clare, 

The chickstrings trembled and parted . . . and 
Julie was there. 

French Julie! just home from 'the pictures;' pink 
chiffon scarf on her head; 

12 



(( 



Tid'apa" 



Dark eyes, bright-clear as a baby's; flushed cheeks, 

as a schoolgirl's, red 
With the pulse of unwonted pleasure. She was 

pure grisette; yet a trace — 
So soon! — of the man-made hardness was stamped 

on that roguish face. 
The drunkard eyed her in wonder. "Lord love us, 

whose infant is this? 
A French kid. Here? And a new one! O 

darling, give uncle a kiss. 
What's that? N e comprends pas. Eh bien done, 
viens ici m'embrasser, ma mie." 
(Jim's brand was a seller in Saigon.) Clare 

frowned, and rose from his knee. 
'^Nimmt doch immer die besten Kunden:" hate 

snarled in the guarded voice: 
But the brothel-code was upon her; the law of the 

client's choice. 
Which none may hinder nor question. She had 

lost. It was Julie's trick. 
Her worn shoes scraped on the matting as she 

sulked through the rustling chick. 



So much more like a maid than a harlot, demure, 
unassuming, petite — 

13 



(( 



Tid'apa" 



What, what in the name of the devil, brought Julie 
to Cinnabar Street? 

Had he been half-sober, some subtle, some in- 
grained instinct of right 

Would have sounded its voiceless message; but the 
whole mad man was alight 

With the passions that drink had kindled, and 
fondling fanned to a fire. 

And yet, even on drink-doped senses, — dazed eyes, 
beast-blank with desire, 

Saw naught but a houri-vision, white arms, red lips, 
and the sheen 

Where the neck curved warm to the breastline, — 
the aura of things unseen, 

A scarce-breathed, flickering soul-wave, discoded 
but conscience-deep. 

Thrilled weak; as a whispered warning, half- 
heard and forgotten in sleep. 

So weak, yet for Julie — a respite! 

A stranger's voice, through the haze, 

His own voice came to him. Stumbles and dark- 
ness! Sudden, the blaze 

Of gas-flares! Coolth!! They were moving. It 
was all just a blurred dream-ride; 

Tossed loin-cloth, dipping and rising to the lope 
of his coolie's stride ; 

14 



''Tid'apa" 

Wheels whirring; a rush of faces; and the girl he 
clasped; and the gleam 

As the lights spun past and behind them. Gay 
dreams! But for her — no dream; 

Those dank hands seeking her, clutching and fum- 
bling at bosom and waist; 

Those lips that mocked at her struggles, lips bitter 
as whisky to taste. 

How she loathed these English — the drunkards! 

"Do you love me?" Piteous guile, — 
Her writhed mouth shrivelled in answer to the 

wan, dumb wraith of a smile. 
"A peach — but an iced one. Tid'apa, he liked 

them cold, till. . . ." The wheels 
Stopped dead. They were back at Rose's. He 

had climbed the stairs at her heels. 



Arms pressed on the sill, — deaf and blind to the 
eddying pageant below, — 

She leaned from the open casement. Mixed oc- 
taves, the ebb and the flow 

Of life in 'the lines,' beat upwards — boys shouting, 
a fragment of song, 
IS 



(( 



Tid'apa'' 



Click-scrape of dropped shafts on the sidewalk, 

weird music, plunk of a gong, 
Strings twanging, lewd laughter of women, 

^^Faut bien nous coucher, ma chere." 
. . . Hardly a sound, but he heard it: '"Mon Z)z>M, 

que la vie est amere." 
And a great fear fell upon Jimmy; the scarlet of 

drink went gray; 
For he seemed to catch, in that whisper, the cry of 

a soul at bay. 
*There was nothing her form in Lallong . . but 
he wasn't going to stay — 
No, not for millions of dollars. . Should he give 

his reasons, explain. 
Console, or try to? . . Quite hopeless! What 
was the reason?' His brain 
Refused. 'Still — he mustn't stop there. Best slip 

away. . .' To the creak 
Of his footfall, she turned, and faced him, and 

knew, and ere he could speak, 
— Lost clients meant fines from die Alte, or worse 

— she had clutched him, and held 
Till the frayed silk ripped at his shoulder. She 
begged, she implored, she compelled, 
i6 



(( 



Tid'apa'' 



She wept, she caressed, and cajoled him, clung 

tight as a drowning one clings: 
And her words were the words of a harlot, she 

offered unnameable things. 
The words were the words of the harlot, but the 

voice on her quivering lips 
Was the voice of the prisoner in torment; stark 

fear in it, fear of the whips. 
"Stop here? Yes, I'd stop, if you liked me." 

''Je t'aime," she sobbed, "only — stay. 
Je t'aime. See, I tell you I love you. Oh, please, 
please don't go away!" 
Loosed hair rippled fragrance about him, he car- 
ried her down to her room: 
Perched sideways, short-frocked, on the mattress, 

he thought her a child in the gloom. 
(Pretty nurseries, aren't they? where the lizard 

runs on the wall. 
And the rat on the worn-out matting; where the 

louse and the cockroach crawl; 
Where the lean mosquito buzzes, and the torpid 

Kling boy's snore 
Drones loud to the heat-waked sleeper through the 

fanlight over her door.) 
"You can't fool me, you know, Julie. If you liked 

me, only a damn, 

17 



(( 



Tid'apa" 



I'd stay like a shot. Do you like me? The love 

you talk of's a sham; 
And you loathe me, loathe me like poison. Come, 

tell me now — don't be afraid — 
Would you rather I paid you, and vanished; or 
paid you — and stayed?" 
She looked at him, laughed, leaned forward, and 

flung him his answer pat: 
"I know, though I'm young to the business, men 
don't treat women like that." 
''All rules have exceptions, Julie; and it's nine 

to four that I'm tight; 
But here are your thirty dollars. Don't thank 
me, kiddie. Good night." 



18 



§ III 

"Tea, Master." The glued eyes opened. Ah 
Wong's face grinned at him, blank, 

Through the gap in the parted curtains. "Heap 
late." He cursed him, and drank. 

'Blind, blind to the wide.' It was shaky, his hand 
on the dipper-bar, 

As the water slopped over, gurgling, from its Ali- 
baba jar. 

There was work that morning — confound it — ■ 
work, letters and order-sheets: 

For mails close, and firms wait indents, in spite 
of Cinnabar Streets. 

How the blurred keys slipped to the finger! "Ten 
cases of Number Three, 

"Red Seal. To be shipped twice monthly. Cash 
Glasgow. Net F.O.B. 

"Ten cases of Purple Capsule. . . ." To the type- 
bars' rattle and tap. 

The man and the woman in Jimmy fought-over 
the night's mishap. 

19 



(( 



Tid'apa" 



'You ought to do something to help her,' cried the 

voice of his woman-heart; 
But the man-mind jeered in rejoinder, 'You fool, 

she's only a tart.' 
Came tiffin. His mail was finished. Legs wide on 

the strutted chair. 
He rested; but might not slumber: for the picture 

of her, in despair, — 
Dark eyes brimming tears, loosened tresses, pale 

fingers clenched on his sleeve, — 
Rose up on the shimmering skyline to banish 

sleep's craved reprieve. 
Day waned with his indecision, while he lounged 

at the 'M. & O.' 
Until gray-blue hills in the distance and green- 
blue waters below 
Grew one in the azure twilight; till the Love-star's 

carcanet 
Gleamed clear on the hushed horizon where the 

blent blue velvets met; 
And out from the darkling leafage — ghost-harpies 

of hawks long-slain — 
Slow-flapping their sable pinions, swept the flying- 
foxes' chain. . . . 
Should he make an end, and forget her, or go back 

to Rose's again? 

20 



§ IV 

Ere he clambered the creaking staircase, he could 
hear, to a ragtime's beat. 

Sharp clapping of hands, and laughter, and the 
scuffle of moving feet. 

Men swarmed that evening at Rose's. Already, 
the air was foul 

With reek of their smoke. As he entered, a drunk- 
ard flung him a scowl. 

A boy, a stranger, was playing. They had rolled 
back the dusty rugs, 

And were dancing one-steps and two-steps and 
tangos and bunny-hugs — 

Clare with them. But what of Julie ? *It was over- 
early for trade. 

Yet with house so full, could it be that ' 

The thought stabbed keen as a blade. 

"Your vife she go out in de rickshaw. Chust time 
for vun leetle smoke. 
And vun visky-tansan, Chimmy." How die Alte 
leered as she spoke! 

21 



How he hated her, and her ''Chimmy," her leering, 

trafficking face, 
And the silly songs, and the music, and Clare, and 

the whole damn place: 
It was tawdry — to-night he knew it: the unclean 

daubs on the wall; 
Yon full-fed man in the corner, wine-ripe for a 

kiss or a brawl; 
The reek, and the reeling couples: 'Good God, 

how he hated it all! 
This was Julie's life.' . . . 'Was he barmy, a 

youngster, fresh from his school?' 
'Your chippy was always your chippy.' He 

cursed himself for a fool. 
A pert face peeped from the chickstrings; and a 

pleased glance smiled to his own. 
But ere he could rise to claim her, as the wild dog 

leaps for the bone. 
Or the goshawk swoops on the partridge when the 

huddled cheepers rise, 
The wine-ripe man in the corner had spotted his 

tender prize, 
Pounced, grappled, but scarcely held her: fists 

doubled, eyes murder-red, 
''Mine, mine for to-night," flared Jimmy. And 

the man saw death there^ — and fled. 

22 



(( 



Tid'apa" 



He felt, as his arms went round her, how the young 

breasts fluttered and fell. 
"My car is waiting." 

''Mais, Madame?" 

''Die Alte can go to Hell." 



23 



§ V, 

With a sputter, the engines started; the gears 

clicked home; and the car 
Crawled out from the crowded streetways where 

the passion-shambles are: 
Crawled out, through the jostling rickshaws, 

through the soiled, seethed heart of the town. 
Where signs gleamed gold in the flarelights, and 

the faces, yellow and brown. 
Grinned void in the glare and vanished: crawled 

free, took speed and shot on: 
Purred out from dazzle to darkness; till the last 

light-flicker was gone, 
Till they were alone with the fireflies, and the soft 

night gloom, and the trees. 
And the white road swirling past them to the rush 

of the upland breeze: 
Alone, with his arms about her, and her tired head 

drooped on his breast. 
As a child, held close by her father, droops play- 
time-weary to rest. 

24 



"Tid'apa'' 

And the car purred out past the palm-trees to a 

dim, green jungle-plain. . . . 
Warm woodlands and wax-white blossoms, dew- 
kissed of the evening rain. 
Breathed incense, whispering to them, as they 

strolled to the culvert-bridge. 
Blue-dark against star-strown turquoise, rose the 

ramparts of Lallong Ridge; 
And high o'er those frowned embrazures, blank- 
burnished, silver-bright. 
Trailed clouds and paled star-beams to guard her, 

sailed the waxing orb of the night. 
Green-dark to the rampart-bases, save where, like 

a wild beast's eye. 
One red light glowered and glimmered in the 

shadow-tracery, 
Stretched jungle. Leaves, palm-fronds rustled; 

and the beat of a native drum 
Throbbed bass to the marsh frog's treble, and the 

shrilled cicada-hum. 
But the woman was utterly lonely, and she yearned 

for the light, bright ways. 
For the glitter, the glare, and the glamour of lost 

Parisian days; 
For the work-room chaff, and the chatter, and the 

timbre of her mother-tongue, 

25 



C( 



Tid'apa" 



For the crowds and the known, home faces. It is 

evil work to be young, 
To be young, and already broken: — they fracture 

where true steels bend, 
Your weaker, less-tempered alloys. And the man 

seemed almost a friend. . . . 
'A friend! Were there friends, in Lallong? Lust, 

passion, hate, she had known; 
Not friendship, sympathy. . Coward. . She must 

fight her battles alone. 
Nor whimper for useless allies. . Yet, could she 

but voice it, her pain. . 
Why not? He was kind, and a stranger. . She 

would never see him again! 

It was old, the story she told him, as old as the 

horse-leech breed, — 
The tale of the lover who promised; the lover, 

helped in his need 
With money and more than money; the lover 

whose lips were a lie; 
And the choice of selling her body or watching 

the starved babe die. 
**But it did die, poor mite. I was heartbroken, 

crazy. The shops were slack, 
26 



"Tid'apa" 

No hat-hands wanted, no dress-hands — Poiret 

would have taken me back 
In a month, two months. . And my parents? I 

couldn't face mother; she knew 
Of my savings, would ask, cross-question. . But 

what are my troubles to you? 
I'm very mean to be crying when you've taken me 

out like this. 
And been ever so good. Do forgive me. Let's 

laugh, and forget it, and kiss." 
Was it love that woke in you, Jimmy? or pity? or 

just the desire 
(Just peacock-decency, Jimmy?) of picking a rose 

from the mire? 
"How long have I been with die Alte? Why, it 

seems like a century. 
How long? Three — four — six weeks to-morrow. 

Six weeks, and it's killing me! 
I can't sleep. Such a heat, and no punkahs. All 

night, I can feel my heart 
Throb, throbbing away my life-blood." Speech 

choked her. 

A bullock-cart 
Creaked past them, out of the shadows — dark 

beasts against moon-bright road, 
27 



(( 



Tid'apa" 



Lit lanterns a-swing from the palm-tilt, tired 

driver asleep on his goad. 
**Do you ask what brought me to Lallong? What 

lures us all to the East, 
You men, and us others, but money? It doesn't 

pay to be triste, 
And they didn't want me, in Paris. One night, at 

the Bar Palmyre, 
I met a woman, a Yankee. She had been in the 

East — not here. 
But in China. Such tales, she told me, of the easy 

life she had led. 
And the prices! One worked for a season, and 

came back, dowered, to be wed. 

Mon Dieu, how I wish I were married. I might 

have been married, once: 
But I didn't love, and I wouldn't. Not love! 
Sacre nom, what a dunce! . . 

1 booked my passage next morning. . They were 

all so nice on the ship. 
Doctor, and purser, and captain. I shall never 

forget it, that trip; 
Port Said with the Arabs coaling, and Aden, so 

barren, so sad. 
And Colombo, dear green Colombo. . I wasn't 

meant to be bad, 

28 



"Tid'apa" 

But life isn't simple — for women. . Then, here: 

we stopped for the day; 
So I landed; hired me a rickshaw. Madame in- 
duced me to stay. 
She was up at her window, watching, as we drove 

through Cinnabar Street; 
She beckoned; we stopped; and I entered. She 

gave me to drink and to eat; 
She offered me board and lodging, and half of all 

I could earn — 
So I fetched my trunks from the steamer . . . and 

now, I shall never return. 
There, that's my poor little story: and it's no use 

crying, no use; 
For I've nothing on earth to console me — not even 

one good excuse." 
Charged silence: shy schoolgirl-kisses — just a 

quiver of pleading lips 
That are so, so weary of passion: and, bright as 

the rain-drop drips 
From the frangipanni blossom at the turn of our 

changeless year. 
Pearl-bright under purple eyelids the unshed dew 

of a tear. 
Vain gods of unbiassed judgment, that we worship 

when noon-day's light 
29 



Falls pale on your court-room altars, — shall you 

order Malaya's night? 
He had lived as a man lives, taken all that which 

a man may take 
From the yielding trees in the garden; and jeered 

at the baffled snake. 
Could such common fruit be forbidden? The 

thought-train sputtered, and died. 
Was it only the one frail sister who wept to-night 

at his side. 
Or the myriad hopeless others, man's hard-eyed 

victims of lust — 
Ensnared souls bartered for passion, spoiled bodies 

swapped for a crust — 
Who raised limp hands to implore him? . . . Or 

was this the finger of fate; 
Could it be that here was the woman, predestined, 

his dreamed-of mate? 
Tid'apa — the kid was a white girl, alone, in a 

brown man's land: 
It was up to him, as a white man, to lend her a 

helping hand. 
"Stop crying, and listen, Julie. If a fellow gave 

you the chance 
Of getting away from Lallong and starting, afresh, 

in France, 

30 



(( 



Tid'apa'' 



Would you take it, Julie? And could you?" 

''Would I take it? You are a man, 
Yet you know what our life means at Rose's, the 

horror of it, the ban 
Between us and your sneering memsahibs, the risks 

we run, and the mask 
We must wear for each drunkard's pleasure. All 

this you know. And you ask 
Would I take the chance if I got it!" 

*'Yes; but could you? How would you live, 
Over there, on your own, in Paris? Let's say that 

I were to give. . . ." 
"You? Give?" 

"Yes, give you the money." 

Incredulous, wide-eyed, mute; 
As a lean cur, thrashed from a puppy by some lout- 
ish master-brute. 
Will wince to a stranger's petting; she heard — but 

belief was numb 
With fear, with the wounds, and the heartache of 

a youth-long martyrdom. 
"I meant what I said. Are you willing?" He 

sensed her grasp it, and thrill. 
Dark head jerked free from his shoulder: remote 

and suspicion-chill, 
31 



(( 



Tid'apa" 



Those veiled orbs probed him in judgment, 

weighed, wavered; and kindled afresh 
With the spark of a hope long-clinkered. Vain 

hope — for the leper flesh 
Of the harlot may not be cleansed — and she knew 

it vain; yet the high, 
Clean joy of it surged and stammered through the 

banter of her reply: 
"You, you're mad. . . ." 

"Tm in deadly earnest, I swear to you. Yes or No? 
You must give me your answer, Julie. The money's 

up. Will you go?" 
Hands locked on her lap, brows crinkled and tense 

to the stress of her thought. 
Begged maiden you might have deemed her, but 

never one of the bought — 
Begged maiden with pleading lover. No drum 

throbbed now. Not a flower, 
Not a leaf, not a palm-frond rustled. Long since, 

had the one red glower 
Gone black in the jungle-shadows. Etched sepias 

and silver-grays, 
Hushed, breezeless, the spent plain languished, 

a-dream in the pale moonrays: 
Lulled, even the marsh-frog music and the loud 

cicada-shrill. 

32 



"Tid'apa" 

All nature seemed waiting, silent, on the voice of a 

woman's will. 
'^Ah, mais non, mais non. Tu es gentil. But this; 

this wouldn't be right." 
^'Then you won't. Why not?" 
"Don't be angry. Don't spoil it, my wonder-night ! 
You, and the peace you have given. Ridge, jungle, 

the moon on the plain. 
White road, and white bridge where we rested — 

our bridge, shall we see it again? — 
Let them all be sweet to remember." 

"And will nothing alter your mind?" 
"No. Nothing!" 

"You give no reasons. ." 

"Please, dear — you've been ever so kind, 
And I'm grateful, you know I'm grateful — don't 

ask me again! It's so late. 
Will you drive me home by the shore-road. J'adore 

qa. Rest — and the great. 
Deep hush of the cool sea-spaces. ." 

Child-limbs, — that were once so fleet, 
As you tripped down the work-room stair-case, 

skirts flying, eager, to meet 
The lover who waited nightly, — you are tired, you 

can scarcely crawl 
As far as those gleaming car-lights! . . . Does He 

watch when these sparrows fall? 
33 



§ VI 

Have you pined on some world-end foreshore 
when the sea-lanes call you home? . . . 

Dulled sapphire, moonstone and gold-stone, in a 
faint fringe-setting of foam. 

Pearl-white 'gainst the darkling lustre at the black- 
pearl plinths of the capes. 

The bay gleamed jewelled to the skyline. Mast- 
high o'er the shadow-shapes 

Of the shadow-ships at anchor, poised brilliants, 
the riding lights. . . . 

Safe ships of a dream! whither sailing? 

As the uncaged homer flights, 

The swift, winged woman-spirit shook free, flashed 
pinion, and flew 

To the call of the pleasure-city. It is there, just 
there where the blue 

Black, flawless, shimmering sky-vault, star-span- 
gled, fire-opaline. 

Dips sheer to her prison sea-rim. She can see it.' 
Glad arc-lamps shine 

34 



(( 



Tid'apa' 



On the washed, gray glass of its roadways ; she can 

hear the clop of the hooves, 
And the purr of the taxi-autos: she is one with the 

crowd that moves. 
Refluent, laughter-loving, through the nights that 

are almost days, 
Down the mile-long tree-girt boulevards. Night 

ebbs to the chill dawn-haze, — 
Yet she does not flinch from the daylight, nor fear 

for the unclean thing, — 
She is young; he loves her; c'est Paris; new lilac 

purples to Spring; 
They have only this instant parted; waked swal- 
lows twitter and fly, 
[As she leans from her creepered casement to wave 

him a last good-bye. . . . 
Had the man no share in her vision? Had he not 

yearned with the ache 
Of the days we have put behind us, self-exile we 

dare not break? 
**Go back, while the way's yet open." Hands 

touched her, the home-spell broke; 
The dream-scene flickered and vanished. Her lorn 

soul shuddered; awoke. 
*'Go back." 

35 



(( 



Tid'apa" 



"Don't tempt me !" she whispered. (Oh, the night- 
mare aeons ahead!) 

''Yet you loathe it, this life of . ." 

"Loathe it? I would ten times rather be dead. 

But to take your money, deprive you of little things 
that you want 

So that / can. . . ." 

"What nonsense, Julie!" 

"No, I just can't take it, I can't." 

"But . ." 

"It isn't as if you were rich, dear; die Alte told 
me, she knows. 

And I'm such a fool about money. . That's why 
I'm here, I suppose. . 

It was only the other Sunday, Clare had to settle 
my fee 

With a client who . . . Christ Almighty, is there 
no shame left in me?" 

Star-shine, and shadow, and sea-shine — man's 
world, beyond all belief 

Exquisite! . . Man's own tortures, despair unend- 
ing, the grief 

Of one sobless woman-atom, racked, conscience- 
stricken, adrift! 

"You must take this money, Julie. We'll call it a 
loan, not a gift — 

36 



"Tid'apa'' 

A loan to be paid at your leisure." 

The full home-vision was gone, 
But her gaze still lingered seaward where the 

beckoning mastlights shone, 
And her soul still fluttered for freedom. 

"The money is mine to lend. 
Though Madame does think me a pauper. To 

borrow, once, from a friend — 
Is that such an awful crime, child?" 

"You will trust me, knowing me bad — 
A prostitute?" 
"Trust you? Always! If you only guessed just 

how glad 
It would make me to know I had helped you. 

When I think of my own career, 
Of the chances I've had — yes — and Wasted; and 

of you with no chance. . . . Oh, my dear. 
Don't be foolish; life isn't just money. . . ." 

He could scarcely hear it, her low 
"As long as I live, I shall bless you. You have my 

promise. I'll go." 



27 



§ VII 

And what is the end of my story? Midsummer? 
the long straight street 

Of some French provincial township, green-shut- 
tered 'gainst noonday's heat? 

And a stranger, an English stranger? and a gamin 
pointing the way 

To the hat-shop of Mam's'lle Julie in the Rue 
Quatorze Juillet? 

And a cry of ''C'est tot done, Jimmy," from a girl 
in a plain, print dress, 

Who has fought her battle, and conquered, and 
waited in faithfulness. 

For the man that can scarce believe her the pale, 
frail woman he knew? 

And my lovers at last united in their city of dreams- 
come-true? . . . 

. . . But our dreams come true so seldom — to the 
drifting souls and the weak, 

Never! 

What </o^5 it matter? 

38 



(( 



Tid'apa" 



Let us hide this thing from our sleek, 
Incurious marrying-women. Let us feed them 

some half-proved tale 
Of an Army Officer's daughter, trapped, bound, 

and offered for sale. 
Then let them read in our news-rags {real pimps, 

that pander to cash!) 
How we stamped out a phantom traffic with our 

threats of a phantom lash. 
We are stern, we are moral, and righteous, and 

. . . skilful at saving our face 
With cruelty-clauses, and health-lies, and this 

'safety-valve of the race' — 
Our Clares and our tortured Julies. 'They are 

daughters of Ishmael ; 
'They are hardened, forsaken of Heaven.' Is there 

any torment in Hell, 
That hardens^ Are virgins 'hardened?' Ere we 

gave them the Judas-kiss, 
These were virgins we starved or made love us. 

We have crucified them for this! . . . 
Tid'apa, it's only a story. 

On a labouring, creaking ship, 
As she stumbles from Guardafui through the 
cross-wise roll and the dip 

39 



(( 



Tid'apa" 



Of the South monsoon's tail-fury; in the hospital- 
cabin, abaft, 

Propped patient and weary doctor. Caged fan- 
blades shrill, as they waft 

The damp, hot, sea-staled airgusts to the man who 
must fight each breath. 

He has hoisted on livid cheekbones the grim, blue 
Peter of death. 

Ice drips from those bandaged temples. Twitched 
fingers fumble and grope, 

Smoke-brown, on the wrinkled sheeting. There is 
neither solace nor hope 

Nor peace in this lime-washed death-trap. Loud 
bottles jar in the rack. 

Tilt, clink as she rolls to leeward, right, clink as 
she lurches back. 

Tilt, clink again as she pitches. The bunk-springs 
jiggle and grate. 

A door-catch raps on the woodwork. From a 
strained expansion-plate, 

Groans answer to wave-thud's tremor on the sod- 
den hatchways below. 

Cramp-crouched on his rocking camp-chair, tired- 
eyed in the bed-lamp's glow, — 

Two days and two nights has he vigiled — the doc- 
tor dozes and blinks. 
40 



(C 



Tid'apa" 



'How long can the heart-valves stand it? his sys- 
tem's rotten with drinks: 
And diplococcus pneumoniae. . . .' 

A sudden tremor! A start! 
Bolt upright, eyes staring, arms rigid, slack blued 

lips trembling apart, 
The patient struggles for utterance. 

"Ah Wong, Ah Wong, what time train? . . . 
Blue sketch-plans — one of them's missing — not I, 

Sir Edward. . . . Rain, rain. 
And the rain's all blood, Julie's life-blood — I must 

leave Lallong to-night — 
You'll see to her, won't you, padre? — I'll post the 

cash when you write. ... 
James Sanders — that's from the parson — my 

name's not Sanders, you know. 
It's . . . Curse her, she won't — won't chuck it — 

she promised, promised to go — 
My Julie, still there, in that hell-shop. . . . White 

rabbits — the pit's all slime — 
No ropes — they're climbing and climbing, but the 

pitwalls slide as they climb — 
Down, down, down — look, bodies, twitching — 

black shapes, black shapes in the flame — 
The snakes, the snakes! . . ." 
Gasping silence. Arms crumble. Tottering frame 

41 



(C 



Tid'apa" 



Rocks; sways; recovers; collapses. "You will bless 

— you promise me. Lies! . . ." 
"No hope when they've once gone under." 

Death glazes those staring eyes. 



42 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: June 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 



